


cursed is the fool who's willing

by starknjarvis



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, Vague relationship with canon, meaningless sex that isn't meaningless at all, miscommunications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25174801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starknjarvis/pseuds/starknjarvis
Summary: When Geralt and Jaskier fall into bed together, Geralt assumes they are on the same page. It turns out that sometimes communication requires... actual conversation.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 591





	cursed is the fool who's willing

When he and Jaskier finally fall into bed together, it doesn’t go as Geralt imagined. Jaskier is beautiful in the candlelight of their cheap inn room, a smirk on his face as he unlaces Geralt’s shirt. That part, Geralt expected, as well as how Jaskier is even more beautiful when Geralt wipes the smirk off his face. He moans like a song when Geralt is fucking him, latching his legs around Geralt’s hips to pull him closer. He enjoys sex with joyous, wild abandon.

Geralt has never had _fun_ having sex. He’s gotten pleasure from it, of course. But he’s never had his partner bite his jaw and say, “Smile, Witcher. Admit you’re enjoying this, or I’ll make you the star of a bawdy new ballad by morning. I’m a quick writer, especially when I had this much to work with.” Even that, though, was classic Jaskier.

No, what surprises Geralt about it is how… normal they are afterward.

Geralt wakes up more than an hour before Jaskier, watching the dawn illuminate the room as Jaskier snores quietly against his chest. He had tucked himself into Geralt’s arms and dropped to sleep as soon as they were done. Geralt watches his peaceful face and wonders what awkward conversation the morning will bring.

Will Jaskier tease him about Geralt’s seduction, which had been a sudden kiss that had cut Jaskier off mid-sentence? Will Jaskier ask how long Geralt has been quietly pining? (The answer is embarrassingly long.) Will Jaskier poke and prod until Geralt has to find the words for this thing in his chest, this warmth and softness and ferocity that threaten to overwhelm him when he thinks of the bard? Jaskier loves to watch Geralt squirm, and what better time than after Geralt has clumsily shoved his heart at the bard?

Jaskier blinks awake and stretches. He looks up into Geralt’s eyes, and Geralt tenses for the conversation to come.

Instead, Jaskier slaps his ass, gets dressed, and heads down to procure breakfast as usual.

And that’s…it.

Jaskier doesn’t mention the sex again.

The next night, they share a bedroll, but Jaskier took a blow to the head during a skirmish, so they fall asleep without even a kiss.

A few nights after that, after sharing a few pints and meaningful looks at a bar, they fuck behind a stable. It’s rough and fast and satisfying. Geralt holds Jaskier up against the wall—he’s light as a feather—and Jaskier is panting before Geralt even starts to finger him open. He seems to get a thrill from Geralt’s strength. The muscle from his mutation and centuries of slaughter is just a tool for Jaskier’s pleasure.

It goes on like that, and it’s great. Jaskier is an eager sexual partner, whether they’re on a bedroll by a smoldering fire or rolling around on the finest sheets the local town can offer.

And they don’t talk about it.

Geralt should be happy. Talking has never been his strength. But still, he had expected…something. Jaskier is not the subtle type, and had never been coy about his romantic partners before. He expects the bard to recite sappy love poetry until Geralt is red in the face. Craft flower crowns on the roadside for Geralt to indulgently wear. Brag at local pubs while Geralt glares at everyone listening.

Jaskier flings himself into Geralt’s arms any time he reaches for him, and then doesn’t breathe a word about it. It’s the kind of partnership Geralt would have once called ideal.

One night, he nearly says something. “Jaskier,” he starts after he finishes setting up camp.

Jaskier looks up from strumming his lute. “Why, yes, Geralt?” He gathered a small stack of firewood, but left Geralt to do the rest of the work. He looks beautiful reclining against a tree, stroking his fingers along his favorite instrument.

He notices Geralt’s gaze and plucks a string. It’s a lute. It shouldn’t seem suggestive. He meets Geralt’s eyes and smirks.

They don’t end up talking that night.

#

Geralt finds a glass-blown dandelion for sale in a market. It’s obscenely expensive, and even more impractical. Glass is too delicate for the adventures he has.

Still, he buys it and hands it to Jaskier that night in their room.

“Geralt?” he says as he takes it, examining it. He holds it with the kind of delicacy Geralt wishes he could summon from his mutated bones. He blinks up at Geralt, who turns his head to hide a blush.

“The glassblower was going out of business. Desperate to get rid of all his junk,” Geralt says. “Made me think of you.”

“Why, thank you,” Jaskier says wryly.

That night, when Geralt takes Jaskier to bed, he hates that he can’t give Jaskier the tenderness he deserves. Geralt can’t be delicate. He’s not built for gentleness. Instead, he uses his strength and focus to go _slow_ , wringing every last ounce of sweat and come he can from his bard.

Jaskier writhes beneath him, fighting at first for more speed, and then throwing himself onto Geralt’s mercies. He sprawls luxuriously, panting and gasping and letting Geralt give him the best he can.

#

It’s a familiar scene.

Geralt, covered in blood. A pijavica’s head, open-mouthed and bloody, in his hand. Jaskier, smiling and alive only because Geralt nearly killed himself to rescue him after he’d put himself in harm’s way. The local duke staring down at Geralt with an unreadable expression.

“You came to my lands at my request, to save my people from the horrors stalking them at night,” the duke announces. “I promised you a handsome reward if you could make my dukedom safe again.”

He had gathered his court to watch this, whatever this was. Would he accuse Geralt of making it worse? Of creating the problem in the first place? He has had this kind of meeting hundreds of times, and the amount of times he had easily walked away with his promised prize was laughable. The percentage has increased since he started traveling with Jaskier. The bard’s songs have helped Geralt’s reputation, and Jaskier is quite willing to jump to Geralt’s defense when the lawyers appear and wordplay begins.

“You have done as I’ve asked with admirable speed, and at considerable risk to yourself,” the duke continues. “According to my secretary, you have been dedicated to your task. In my lands, such commitment is rewarded.”

Geralt stares up at him, waiting for him to get on with it. The blood is beginning to congeal against his skin, and the stench of the creature’s head is truly rank.

“As the court knows, I have been searching for a worthy husband to my third daughter, Griselle. And we have found him. Geralt of Rivia, I present—your reward.”

He waves his hand, and a young maiden steps forward from beside his chair. Despite the fact her father seems to have just handed her over like a sack of coins, she does not look displeased with Geralt. Wide eyes take him in, lingering on his chest and thighs. She curtsies to Geralt. “My lord Witcher,” she murmurs.

“She will make a fine wife,” the duke continues. “I’m sure this will be an equitable payment for your work.”

A Witcher as son-in-law to a duke. Geralt imagines himself in the strappings of dukedom, the gilt and fluff he’s been bullied into at a dozen events over his long life. It would legitimize the Witchers like nothing else could.

Geralt suppresses a laugh.

“That is very…kind of you, Duke Grayash. But I’m previously committed, and would prefer gold.”

#

“I can’t believe you said no,” Jaskier says when they’re in their room.

Geralt grunts.

Despite Geralt’s rejection, he was not run out of the castle. The duke seems to be a decent man, if alarmingly generous, and gives Geralt and Jaskier a suite for the night. Geralt has kept a close eye on the guards, but there seems to be no assassination attempt incoming. Finally, Geralt has to admit to himself that the duke seems to have been genuine. The gold he was given as an alternate reward was a pittance. In the duke’s eyes, handing over a daughter was a far easier reward than opening his coffers.

“I mean, seriously, did you see the tits on that girl? They defied gravity. She was lovely, no more than twenty, and looked ready to bed you even if she hadn’t had her father’s blessing. I thought she was going to lick you, I swear.”

“That would have been inadvisable,” Geralt comments. “Pijavica blood is poisonous.”

“That’s why I made you take a bath before I let you in the room,” Jaskier says. “But she didn’t seem to care. Can you imagine—Duke Geralt.” He holds up his hands like he can see the name on a banner.

“She was his third daughter. There would have been no dukedom for me,” Geralt points out.

“People die,” Jaskier says easily.

“I would be a terrible duke.”

“Not as bad as most of the ones out there,” Jaskier says. “Seriously, Geralt. ‘Committed?’ They never said you had to stop witching to get married to the girl.”

“I didn’t say I was committed to witching,” Geralt says.

“Then what?”

“You, idiot.”

“I... You…” For once, Jaskier seems to be at a loss for words. “You turned down a gorgeous princess, a title, money—”

“They don’t really seem to have much of that.”

“—and prestige, just to keep sleeping in the dirt with me?”

Geralt shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Look, I know I annoy you into letting me tag along—and also that my ass is very fine—but I didn’t imagine you’d do this. I’m not going to turn into some simpering flower if you picked the better option. I know there’s some misguided loyalty under all the grunting, but honestly. Who picks some fucking over this?” Jaskier waves his hand to the gilt room.

Geralt stares. “You… Jaskier, I…”

“What?”

“This.” Geralt has to take a breath. “This isn’t just fucking, Jaskier.” When Jaskier looks confused, cautious, Geralt says, “You have to know this isn’t just fucking.”

“I _have to know_? At what point did you ever say that this wasn’t just sex? You’re Geralt of Rivia! You’re not looking for something long-term. It’s not in your genetics.”

It’s been a long time since Geralt has been _hurt_ , but that hits like a blow to the face. No, Geralt has been hit in the face plenty of times. This is being abandoned to the mountain as a child. This is Renfri dying.

“Not like that,” Jaskier says, holding up his hands. Geralt wrests control of his expression, but the damage is done. “Geralt, not like that. It’s not that you’re a Witcher. It’s that you’re you.”

“Right.” Geralt wants to be anywhere but here.

Jaskier steps forward. His hands flutter in the air, and then they land on Geralt’s lapel. He’s changed into soft clothes after his bath, and despite all of this, he’s relieved he’s washed off the blood. “You never said anything. We never even cuddled.”

“You sleep on me all the time,” Geralt says stiffly. He doesn’t move. He’s barely breathing.

“I did that before we started fucking,” Jaskier reminds him. “I thought you…tolerated me, and the sex was a bonus.”

“You still think me heartless,” Geralt says.

“No, stop it. This isn’t about you. People sleep with me all the time, Geralt. It doesn’t mean they like me. It means they like sex. And I like sex.”

“Have you fucked anyone recently?” The words are out of Geralt’s mouth, stilted and hurt. But he knows the answer. He would have smelled it on the bard, even if it had only been something quick. His arousal is a powerful scent, and Geralt knows it well.

“Well, no,” Jaskier admits. “I wasn’t looking for anyone. Look, if you must know, I’ve been pining desperately for you. I’d appreciate if you didn’t rub it in.”

“You were pining for the person you’re sleeping with?” Geralt asks, still stiff, still hesitant.

“It’s embarrassing, isn’t it?” Jaskier asks. He moves his hands from Geralt’s lapels up so that his arms drape over Geralt’s shoulders. He steps closer with the movement, looking up. “See? We’re using our words. Now you tell me what you’re thinking.” Despite his confident movements, his face is flushed and there’s a skittishness in his eyes. One wrong word from Geralt, Jaskier may step back across the room. He may step out of Geralt’s life entirely.

Geralt has never been good with words. Luckily, there’s a widely accepted script for this type of situation.

“I love you.”

Jaskier freezes, and Geralt thinks he still fucked this up.

Then, Jaskier surges up and kisses Geralt. He pulls Geralt down, one hand on his neck to draw him closer and the other holding onto the expanse of his back like he’s at sea and Geralt is the only solid thing around.

Geralt kisses back. He’s hesitant at first. He had thought that their bodies were speaking for them all along, but he should have known that average humans are blind. Jaskier can’t smell Geralt’s constant arousal when he is around. He can’t hear Geralt’s heartbeat stutter when Jaskier smiles.

Geralt believed they were together in this. If Jaskier could so badly misunderstand Geralt—could Geralt still be misunderstanding Jaskier?

He breaks the kiss to drag his lips along Jaskier’s cheekbone. He hesitates at his ear. “Does this mean you… You also?”

“Yes, you idiot,” Jaskier says, hands skating down Geralt’s back to grab his ass. “I love you. I’ve loved you for ages. Take me to bed.”

Geralt growls and kisses him again.

When Jaskier pulls him to the bed and reaches back to find its surface, Geralt halts him. He kisses Jaskier’s hand at his confused look, and then hefts himself onto the bed first. He stretches out and leaves his palms face-up, an invitation.

“You want me to…?”

“If you’d like,” Geralt says. His voice has dropped into something gravely and deep.

Jaskier presses a hand to his chest. His heart is hammering like a woodpecker, but it’s a pleasant noise. “You’re a gift, Geralt.” He strips quickly and then crawls over Geralt.

Geralt expects the same speed applied to him, but Jaskier suddenly slows down. He eases Geralt out of his shirt, and then maps his way over every mark. The scars get kisses. The abs get long licks. The nipples get sucked and toyed with until Geralt can barely breathe. Jaskier has let Geralt control their sex until now, enjoying himself but rolling over to Geralt’s nudges. Now, he’s taking his time and learning every inch of Geralt like he’s a new lute.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls.

“Don’t start with me,” Jaskier scolds, sitting on Geralt’s stomach. It wouldn’t stop Geralt from moving if he wanted. He doesn’t. “You offered me this. Let me make it mean something. You love me? Let me love you. Stay still and _let me_.”

Geralt doesn’t complain again, even when Jaskier goes back to his slow ministrations. He focuses on keeping still as commanded. He’s been fucked before, but no one has ever been gentle. Geralt is a Witcher. He can take beatings that would kill mortal men. No one has ever thought they needed to be tender with him.

Jaskier treats him like glass, like the small dandelion Geralt knows is still tucked in his saddlebag.

By the time Jaskier eases inside of him, Geralt is wide-eyed and heady with sensation. “You’re so good,” Jaskier murmurs. “You’re beautiful like this. Look at you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasps.

“That’s it, love,” Jaskier says. “Take me, take me.”

Jaskier fucks him slowly at first, and then builds. He’s been teasing Geralt for so long that he already feels as though he is ready to burst. His senses are sharper than a normal human’s, and Jaskier has taken full advantage so that every nerve is on high alert.

“Beautiful,” Jaskier repeats, and kisses Geralt. When he’s built a rhythm, he grasps Geralt’s cock and strokes it just off the beat. It’s deliberate—with Jaskier’s musician’s mind, he normally kisses in perfect time. It keeps Geralt on edge, uncertain where the next sensation will come from. “Have I mentioned how much I love your cock? It’s built for me. My hand, my mouth, my ass. For someone so quiet, you love when I talk like this, don’t you? You’re squirming.”

“Jaskier.”

“You’re mine, Geralt of Rivia. Mine,” Jaskier says.

Everything rushes over Geralt in a wave, and he comes apart. Jaskier fucks him through it, losing his rhythm and coming as well.

Afterward, they rest in a tangle of limbs. Jaskier is petting Geralt’s chest. Is he simply unwilling to stop touching him, or can he sense that this is what Geralt’s hyper-sensitive body needs to come down from the high? It’s soothing either way, and Geralt breathes deeply and relaxes into it.

Jaskier tucks his head under Geralt’s chin. “I can’t believe I let your reticence rub off on me. I should have told you.”

Geralt grunts, but that’s what got them into this. “I’m not good at this. At explaining.”

“Then I’ll just demand it of you. You’ve fought off hordes. You can say a few words now and then.” The petting motion becomes more idle, a finger tracing abstract patterns over Geralt’s skin. “You’re a difficult man to read, Geralt. I’m not looking to be made a fool.”

“This is real,” Geralt murmurs into Jaskier’s hair. “You have me.”

They fall asleep tangled together, Jaskier’s scent in his nose and his weight keeping Geralt in place.

**Author's Note:**

> My original fiction muse went on strike, so I wrote this very self-indulgent drabble. Gotta love these boys and their miscommunications.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://starknjarvis27.tumblr.com/)!


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